


Sign of Spring

by Nihonkikuasa211



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: Child Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mentions of Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6575023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nihonkikuasa211/pseuds/Nihonkikuasa211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To many people, daffodils represent the coming of spring and hope to fight against cancer. To Christa Lorenson, the daffodils represent her tragedy and grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sign of Spring

_Sign of Spring_

           With the coming of spring often came the birth of daffodils. Christa knew of how the sight of the yellow flowers were often seen as a sign of spring. The resident could see the flower in her mind, the yellow petals shining in the sun against the rays of sunlight, the yellow or burnt orange center of beauty.

            It did not last.

            The flower seen as the coming of spring died soon afterward. Many people often wondered why those flowers died so soon. In Christa’s world, she was relived whenever those flowers disappeared and died. Something inside her chest, even now with many years passed her son’s death, cracked at the sight of those very flowers.

            It was well known that daffodils were sold to raise the cause of cancer. Apparently the money was used for research and a cure. Christa almost wanted to scream at the blatant lie that was told to people who didn’t know. _No amount of money helped save my son._ The two years of midlevel torture would be something that Christa could never erase from her mind. The sound of her son’s screams with every shot and spinal tap; the sight of his beautiful curly hair disappearing inch by inch; and a weak skeleton too weak to even who couldn’t possibly be her precious sweet little boy.

            The sight of the yellow flowers brought back the memories of when Christa had thought there had been hope. How many flowers had she bought when her son had been diagnosed? The first year resident couldn’t remember. Her only memory was of how her son had laughed, his little laughter lighting the room despite the fact that he had been diagnosed with cancer. His small hands clutched hers as he begged his mother to help plant them. _“They’ll need food and water, Mom! Then they’ll get better!” Just like me,_ was the unspoken sound from her son’s lips. Christa attempted to smile, trying to not meet her then-husband’s defeated expression as her heart started to break into small pieces as she led her son outside into the backyard where they spent so much of their time.

            The flowers that had bloomed twice since the moment she and her son had planted them remained even after the sweet boy who had always asked how they were doing as he laid, so small and wan, in his hospital bed. _“I want to see the flowers again, Mom.”_ Her little boy had promised her that he would live to see the daffodils. To the little boy dying of cancer, the small yellow flowers represented the hope that he would live and get better. Just like so many others. When Christa had caressed her son’s head and told him to sleep, he had tried to smile.

            But it only came out as a grimace.

            He died in her arms.

            The sight of her son dying in the room he had once played with his beloved trucks before he had gotten sick, always caused a sharp gaping pain to form in Christa’s heart. He had this room when he had just been born, a tiny newborn swaddled in a light blue blanket with so many clothes in the closets his parents had prepared. The stuffed animals too big for him still there as the little boy too weak to play with them died in his mother’s arms.

            _“Why are you alive when he isn’t?!”_ Something inside the grieving woman who had lost both her son and husband to the cancer broke as she got down on her knees at the bright and alive daffodils. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her chest hurt.

            Shreds of yellow and orange started to pile around the barren yard, smears of the broken flowers staining Christa’s fingers as she ripped and tore the flowers apart. It wasn’t fair. Why were the daffodils that she had bought two years ago still alive when the one person the woman treasured most of all died? Why? The broken yellows and greens became a blur as Christa started to sob, her hands shaking.

            _Why?_ she thought. _Why?_

            She remained lying there for a long time.

            Christa didn’t know how long she was there.

            Only knowing the empty space of her heart as she inadvertently destroyed one of her last memories of her son. The flowers that they had planted together were now destroyed, with only broken petals and stems strewn like body parts and bones.

            The neighbors didn’t say anything when they saw a bag of shredded parts of daffodils the next day.

            Even now as Christa remembered, for a long time she couldn’t see the bright yellow flowers as a sign of hope, or even spring. Her blue eyes glanced outside of the Angels’ windows and tried to shake the sudden tightness in her chest. There was an outside break area for staff, and Christa had gone by there one time. It had been early in her residency, and Christa had stopped to look at the tree planted towards the end. A complete circle of soil surrounded the tree, as if flowers rested there when they bloomed. Malaya had noted the older resident’s curious glance at the tree, and said the daffodils would often bloom there. The younger female hadn’t noticed the slight stiffening of Christa’s limbs at the sound of the flower’s name, and of how later, the blond appeared apologetic when saying no to spending a day outside in the sun. Spring had now officially come according to the calendar, and Christa knew that the daffodils would soon bloom.

            March 21. The beginning, and ending of so many things.

            Would there one be a day…where she would look at those flowers without a broken heart and a smile?


End file.
